Low Tide on Grand Pré: A Book of Lyrics

by Bliss Carman




HERE by the gray north sea,
     In the wintry heart of the wild,
Comes the old dream of thee,
     Guendolen, mistress and child.

The heart of the forest grieves

     In the drift against my door;
A voice is under the eaves,
     A footfall on the floor.

Threshold, mirror and hall,
     Vacant and strangely aware,

Wait for their soul’s recall
     With the dumb expectant air.

Here when the smouldering west
     Burns down into the sea,
I take no heed of rest

     And keep the watch for thee.

I sit by the fire and hear
     The restless wind go-by,
On the long dirge and drear,
     Under the low bleak sky.


When day puts out to sea
     And night makes in for land,
There is no lock for thee,
     Each door awaits thy hand!

When night goes over the hill

     And dawn comes down the dale,
It’s O for the wild sweet will
     That shall no more prevail!

When the zenith moon is round,
     And snow-wraiths gather and run,

And there is set no bound
     To love beneath the sun,

O wayward will, come near
     The old mad willful way,
The soft moth at my ear

     With words too sweet to say!

Come, for the night is cold,
     The ghostly moonlight fills
Hollow and rift and fold
     Of the eerie Ardise hills!


The windows of my room
     Are dark with bitter frost,
The stillness aches with doom
     Of something loved and lost.

Outside, the great blue star

     Burns in the ghostland pale,
Where giant Algebar
     Holds on the endless trail.

Come, for the years are long,
     And silence keeps the door,

Where shapes with the shadows throng
     The firelit chamber floor.

Come, for thy kiss was warm,
     With the red embers’ glare
Across thy folding arm

     And dark tumultuous hair!

And though thy coming rouse
     The sleep-cry of no bird,
The keepers of the house
     Shall tremble at thy word.


Come, for the soul is free!
     In all the vast dreamland
There is no lock for thee,
     Each door awaits thy hand.

Ah, not in dreams at all,

     Fleering, perishing, dim,
But thy old self, supple and tall,
     Mistress and child of whim!

The proud imperious guise,
     Impetuous and serene,

The sad mysterious eyes,
     And dignity of mien!

Yea, wilt thou not return,
     When the late hill-winds veer,
And the bright hill-flowers burn

     With the reviving year?

When April comes, and the sea
     Sparkles as if it smiled,
Will they restore to me
     My dark Love, empress and child?



The curtains seem to part;
     A sound is on the stair,
As if at the last…I start;
     Only the wind is there.

Lo, now far on the hills

     The crimson fumes uncurled,
Where the caldron mantles and spills
     Another dawn on the world!